by Siren, Tia
“—Happens to me, all the time!”
“Exactly! And then you just smiled, and walked off. Any other day, I’d have tried for your number, but….”
“Bigger things on your mind.”
“And now, you show up at my cabin, the first night I’ve spent here in months, and even remember me!” I reach for her hand again, and this time I squeeze. “I’ve never believe in fate, but this is...quite a coincidence.”
Sarah turns her hand over and clasps mine. “A good coincidence, though. Not one of those awkward ones, where you cut someone off in traffic, and later, they’re doing your job interview.”
“Oh, hate those ones.” The moment seems right, and I’m just working up the nerve to kiss her, when another peal of thunder rolls practically overhead this time. The lights sputter and die. I hear Boone scramble behind the couch.
“Guess we can’t Netflix and chill,” she says, a little shakily.
I think I might be blushing. Good thing it’s dark. “That’s...not what that means.”
“Oh, yeah?” Now, there’s a teasing note to her voice.
“You knew that.”
“I knew that.”
“Let me—uh, let me grab us some candles.”
I am absolutely not nervous. In no way am I stalling for time, while I collect my composure. And...and, if she’s serious about getting frisky, I’d like to be able to see her.
Fortunately, the fire hasn’t died out, and I don’t break my neck rounding us up an assortment of tapers and candleholders. On a hunch, I check on my cell phone, as well: no bars, as expected, but it powers on fine. Inspired, I slip it into my pocket.
While Sarah arranges the candles around the living room, I scroll through the music on my phone. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for, and when she turns around, I hold out my hand. “Want to dance?” The music kicks in—Por una Cabeza—a little tinny over the phone speaker.
“A tango? Wouldn’t say no.” She takes my hand, and I spin her experimentally. She follows my lead with grace. I pull her close, and her cheek grazes mine. I whirl her away, and she arches her back just so. I dip her, and she bends like a willow bough.
She glides through the steps like she was born to them. Pretty soon, I’m not sure whether I’m guiding her, or she’s kindly letting me think I am. Her feet hardly seem to touch the floor. I quit worrying about stepping on her toes: she’ll never let me.
“You’re amazing at this.” We’re so close, our lips almost brush.
She twirls away. “It’s in the blood.”
“Oh?” There’s not an inch between us. I can feel her heart racing.
“My parents live for ballroom dancing. Still compete as a couple. Might’ve picked up a few tricks....” She hooks her leg around my waist, and leans way back. When I pull her back up, she’s flushed and breathless. Her hair’s all tousled around her face.
The music picks up. Her hand cups my cheek. For a moment, I’m sure she’s going to kiss me. But her fingers trail away like a caress, and suddenly we’re back to back. The music’s still playing, but instead of spinning her back out, I turn around and run my hands down her sides. They come to rest at her waist.
She turns around slowly. Her hands find their way to my shoulders. Her eyes shine in the candlelight. Neither of us moves. The music gallops off without us. I barely notice. Sarah has my full attention, especially when her hand finally moves. Her fingers spread out across my chest. I feel her nails, just a little, digging in through my shirt. She has an interesting manicure: red tips, instead of the standard white. Didn’t notice that before—but now, I can’t look anywhere else. An image of vicious little claws raking down my back fills my mind, and my breath catches in my throat.
That’s when she kisses me. Or I kiss her. She presses her whole body against mine. The buttons on her dress are big and square and sharp. I’m not sure whether she has kind of a dangerous edge, or it’s all in my head.
Please don’t be all in my head!
She nips my lower lip. The sting is all I need: I growl low in my throat, and hoist her into my arms. For a second, I wonder if it’d be entirely inappropriate to throw her on the couch—then, her whisper tickles my ear: do it. It’s almost a moan. And for the first time since I arrived, I’m here. In the moment.
No second thoughts.
I do it.
6
Sarah
Sam is on me in an instant. I give his tie a good yank. His arms buckle, and he collapses on top of me. His weight is just the right side of crushing—enough to pin me firmly on my back without knocking the breath out of me. I wrap my legs around him. His cock’s hard, already, and so is the rest of him: I can feel taut muscles rippling under his clothes, as I grip on tight.
He’s biting at my ear, little hungry pecks that have me begging for more. When he licks a long line down my throat, and breathes on the wet skin, I feel it all the way down my side, a tingle that starts below my earlobe, and ends at my toes. “That’s it—that’s good!”
I want him even closer. It’s been a weird, tense night. All that nervous energy has to go somewhere, and Sam seems to feel the same way. I tug his shirt free of his pants, and plunge my hands underneath. He groans when my nails prick his shoulder blades, shudders when I rake them down his ribs.
When I ghost my palms over the newly sensitive skin, he thrusts against me, like he just can’t help himself. His hand’s at my throat—when did that get there?—and he’s not choking me, but I feel a terrible thrill knowing he could. His cufflinks come loose, and I can see the corded strength of his forearm, where his sleeve’s fallen open.
I need that shirt off him.
He’s way ahead of me: his hand’s crept from my throat to my collar, and he’s working at the buttons of my dress. It’s taking far too long.
“Rip it off.”
He hooks a finger under the first button. “Oh, really?” He flashes a teasing grin. “What’ll the cops think, when they find you curled up on my couch—“ He jerks at the button. It goes flying. “—wearing my clothes—“ Two more buttons skitter across the floor. “—smelling like my shampoo—“ He grabs a fistful of fabric, and yanks. I feel cool night air all the way to my thighs. “—with that crazy sex hair, like....” He ruffles my hair. “Mmm. Just like that?”
“They’ll think we—“ Oh, that’s distracting, the way he’s tracing the contours of my breasts through my bra. He flicks at my nipple, and I forget what I was going to say. “We’re adults. They can—yes!—again, like that!—they can think what they want.”
By this time, I’ve freed him from his tie. By the time he’s found the clasp of my bra, his shirt’s on the floor. I rear up and bite his chest, just above the right nipple. He growls again, and thrusts a hand into my hair, right at the base of my neck. He makes a fist, and twists. It tugs, rather than hurts, and I love the sensation of being at his mercy.
“Come up here,” I tell him, and he does, almost straddling my face. His fly’s already half-unzipped. I push his pants down his thighs. The black silk briefs he’s wearing underneath do nothing to hide his impressive bulge. I nuzzle at it, through the fabric, working my lips up and down the length. Can’t wait to get my lips around that. I mouth at the head, tasting the salt of his precum already.
He’s got both hands in my hair now, alternating between stroking and pulling. I’ll definitely get sex hair, at this rate. I definitely don’t care.
I dip a finger under the waistband of his briefs, just grazing the tip of his cock. It twitches and jumps. His whole body tenses. My other hand explores his torso, tracing the firm swell of his pecs, the hard lines of his abs. Sam’s breathing hard, sweating lightly. I nip the crest of his hip, and work down from there, lapping and kissing. When he starts to relax, I grip his thigh hard enough that my nails sink in. His cock swells and throbs against my cheek.
Time to get a look at that thing.
I divest him of his underwear nice and slow, like I’m unwrapping a presen
t. And I’m not disappointed: he’s long and thick, and decidedly ready for action.
I kind of want him to give me a show before I swallow him: cradle my head in his hand, while he jerks off in front of my face. But the desire to taste wins out, and I take his length in my hand, and trace my lips with the tip, like I’m putting on lipstick. I pull back just enough to smile up at him, with his juices gleaming on my lips. He’s looking back at me with something like awe. Perfect.
When I finally take him into my mouth, I think he almost cums right there: he goes rigid all over and bites his lip. I give his ass a good pinch, and squeeze the base of his cock to keep him in check. When I’m sure he’s got himself under control, I start to flutter my tongue around his head. I lap at the slit, and trace every contour, till he’s thrusting his hips, desperate to bury himself in my mouth.
I take him slow, dragging out the torture. He jerks and spasms in my mouth, as my lips glide down, inch by inch. His hands twitch in my hair, like it’s all he can do to keep from pulling me down.
“You’re...you’re....” He doesn’t get any further than that. I choose that moment to moan lightly, so my lips vibrate on his shaft. “Ah!”
There’s a sudden, huge noise: a crack so loud it feels like it’s happening inside my head; the tinkle of shattered glass. I jump back with a yelp. Sam yanks his pants up, and jumps between me and the window. It’s gone—the window’s gone, and I can’t see anything but darkness, on the other side.
“Where’s your dog?” I know it’s Vince; I know we’re in the worst kind of danger, but somehow, all I can think about is the dog. He was right here, but now, he’s— ”Sam—Sam, where’s your dog?”
“Ran off with my shirt twenty minutes ago.” He reaches back and squeezes my knee. “Get behind something—something solid.”
I pull the tattered remnants of my dress around me, and dart behind the woodstove. It’s an old cast-iron one, built to last. By the time I gather the courage to peek out, Sam’s pressed to the wall by the blasted-out window, rifle at the ready. When he sees me looking, he makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger: all good!
I’m having a tough time believing that.
7
Sam
I’ve been told I have the worst timing ever, on more than one occasion.
Sarah’s ex has me beat, hands down.
I hug the wall, listening for anything out of place. But the rain’s doing a fantastic job of filling my ears with white noise. If Vince is creeping across the creaky boards, he’s getting away with it.
Nothing for it. Got to—
Something goes bang in the night—not a gun, but a door, way on the other side of the clearing. He’s found the root cellar, and slammed the door. Doesn’t make sense—one minute, he’s shooting up my living room; the next, he’s cowering among the...decades-old potatoes? Wine racks? Giant monster rats? Don’t think I’ve been out there since Dad died.
Maybe he never set out to fire on us. Maybe he only planned to spy on us through his scope. Maybe he saw what we were up to, took an impulsive shot, and freaked out.
If he thinks he hit us, I might have the element of surprise. Plus, I’ve got the tactical light on my rifle. Can’t assume Vince doesn’t have a light of his own—probably does, given he made it all the way up here—but at least I won’t be at a disadvantage.
I signal for Sarah to stay put, and head out after Vince. The lamp’s just bright enough for me to make out the black patch in the distance where the cellar stairs vanish into the ground. Found a huge salamander down there one summer. Popular hiding spot for slimy creatures. Ha-ha.
I peer down the stairwell from the bushes. The door’s shut tight. There’s a shiny spot on the handle, where the dust’s been rubbed away. He’s in there, all right. I jump down, trusting the downpour to cover the sound. It’s the work of a second to ready my rifle and kick in the door, to reveal—
—nothing.
Or...not quite nothing.
There’s a torch, still lit, abandoned on the floor. No, not abandoned: strategically placed, to illuminate a single word fingered into the dust.
Psych!
Fuck.
Also, fuck.
I kill the tactical light, and sprint back the way I came. Halfway across the yard, I can already hear Vince shouting from the living room. Good. That means Sarah’s still alive. Swallowing the impulse to barge straight in, gun blazing, I circle around back. The sunroom door’s locked, but it’s also made of glass. I force myself to wait for the next thunderclap, and put the butt of my rifle through it. The sound of shattering glass seems impossibly loud, even under cover of thunder, but Vince’s shouting doesn’t stop. I can hear what he’s saying now. It’s about me. It’s...not flattering.
That’s right. Keep talking. More words mean less shooting.
Glass crashes again, from the living room this time. Vince yelps and swears. Sarah must’ve thrown something.
I kick off my shoes and head down the hall in my socks. A board creaks, near the stairs, one I don’t remember creaking before, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice. I shuffle the last few steps, till I can see the living room reflected in the kitchen window. Vince has Sarah cornered under the knickknack shelf. She’s got the fire poker in one hand, and one of Dad’s collectible ashtrays in the other. Vince raises his gun, and she chucks the ashtray, nailing him in the elbow. He swears, wavers, and—
Now.
I spin around the corner, rifle up. I stare him down, through the sight. “Drop your weapon.”
He gets a petulant look on his face, like a kid denied candy. “You can’t—“
“I said, drop it!”
He lowers the barrel, but doesn’t let go. “This is between us. You can’t—you can’t just come in and—“
“Weapon on the floor. Now.”
He finally obeys. The shotgun hits the ground muzzle-first, leaving a nice dent in the hardwood. I narrow my eyes. Something tells me that wasn’t an accident.
And Vince is still whining. “Guys like you—you think you can just fuck anyone’s girlfriend, have your little...your dirty little hillbilly sex-pad, and you always get away with it, just because—“
I’m sick of this guy. I twist his arm behind his back. “On your knees.”
“Why? What are you going to—ow!”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the legal headache of harming a hair on your head.” I wrap my arm around both of his, securing him in place. “I’m just going to restrain you, till the police can come properly dispose of you.” I force him to his knees, as he doesn’t seem interested in going on his own. He still has a lot to say, but I call over him to Sarah. “There’s, uh...in the master bedroom, just up the stairs to the left—if you look in the bedside table.... Uh. Y’know. Set of handcuffs.”
I’m pleased to see a look of amusement flit across her face at that. “Be right back,” she says. She snags a candle, and heads off.
“At least I’m stopping you from using those on each other,” says Vince.
I roll my eyes, and don’t dignify that with a response. Guys like this hate being ignored.
Sarah ignores him, too, when she comes back with the cuffs. “I like your room. Especially the skylight.” She smiles at me, doesn’t spare a glance for him. “One thing, though—I do have to inform you that Boone ripped your shirt into tiny little pieces, and is sleeping in your bed.”
I laugh. “Of course he is.”
“Who the fuck’s—“
“Do I have to gag you, as well?” I snap on the cuffs, and let go of Vince. He wriggles, like he’s about to get up, but a firm hand on his head puts an end to that.
Sarah and I exchange glances over his head.
“So...this is awkward,” she says.
“I know—we ought to be all snuggled under the blanket by now doing the whole...the whole afterglow small-talk thing.”
Vince huffs.
“You mentioned something about me in your clothes, drinking hot c
hocolate earlier. We could do that. Y’know, sip some cocoa, pretend we’re in Starbucks, and he’s the creepy staring guy in the corner.” She shoots him a glance. He scowls back at her, and she shivers. She’s putting a brave face on the situation, but I can tell she’s rattled. I need a moment alone with this guy. Time to establish some ground rules.
“Why don’t you go see what you can find in my closet, and I’ll start the cocoa?”
“Sure.” She sneaks one more glance at Vince before hurrying off. He’s still giving her his best death-stare.
I wait till she’s safely out of earshot, then crouch down in front of him. “This is how it’s going to—“
“I don’t take orders from—“
I hold up my hand. “I said, this is how it’s going to go.: yYou’ll stay where you are, nice and quiet. You’ll keep your eyes and your commentary to yourself. If you don’t, I’ve got a roll of duct tape in the kitchen, with your name all over it. Ever had to rip duct tape off your mouth, after it’s been there a few hours?”
He shakes his head sullenly.
“You don’t want to find out what that’s like. Scruffy guy like you, couple of days between shaves—“ I do an exaggerated wince. “Not going to be fun.”
“Fine. Whatever. You don’t have to—“
I hold up one finger, and he shuts his mouth with a snap.
“Better.”
By the time Sarah makes her way back downstairs, looking adorable in one of my dress shirts and a pair of tatty gardening shorts, I’m boiling milk, and Vince is, well, exactly where I left him. We set up camp in the kitchen: I can still keep an eye on our prisoner, and conversation’s a lot easier with some space between us and him.
Sarah doesn’t look his way once. Doesn’t even mention him. A lot of people would seize the chance to be spiteful in this situation—I wouldn’t have been surprised by a few verbal jabs, maybe a kick or two. I like that she doesn’t stoop to that level—that her wild, bitey side seems to come out in playful moments, not angry ones. She smiles, asks questions, touches my hand, like we really are on a date. Makes me think what we did might’ve been more than lust, more than stress relief.